Blood and Fire: Skyrim Reforged
by Theoren
Summary: Though Alduin is dead, and the civil war has ended, Skryim is far from at peace. Enemies threaten her security from all sides. Can the Dragonborn bring security to a kingdom in trouble?  Takes place after the events of ES:V, rated T for violence
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"Are you going to share that pipe, brother?"

J'darra looked up from the skooma pipe to see his elder twin brother smiling at him. With a yelp of delight the younger Khajiit jumped to his feet to embrace him. "J'zalgo! You have returned. Come, sit, enjoy skooma. You must tell me of your adventures."

J'zalgo snorted as they sat down. "Of adventures, I've had plenty. But I'll tell you, brother, a caravanner would sooner avoid such trouble and misery. A life of riches is better spent than a life of stories."

"Ay! But if you are here, then the former you must not have. Come then, J'zalgo, tell me of Skyrim and the peoples of the north."

The elder Khajiit leaned back in his chair and took a long drag from the pipe. "Skyrim," he paused, "is in chaos. Everyone is at war. The Nords fight amongst themselves, they fight the Empire, they fight the Elves, they fight savages…they fight the harmless caravan merchants who simply want to make a decent living!" He slammed his fist against the table. "And their petty wars were the least of problems. There are dragons, brother, DRAGONS!"

J'darra smirked. "Come now, brother, don't tell me the Argonians have taken to wearing costumes to frighten small children again." He laughed, remembering a troupe of Argonian bards he had witnessed years prior.

"This is not a joke, J'darra. I have seen them. Dragons, larger than this inn. Terrible beasts with hard, scaly skin and enormous, beating wings. They are harbingers of death and destruction. Entire villages have been consumed by their rage."

The younger Khajiit frowned, fear lining his face. "D…dra…dragons? Here? In Tamriel? Brother, they are stories…legends told to small children."

"They are legend no longer. Yet, do not fear brother. The greatest among them has already fallen. His brethren, those that were not slain, have scattered."

"But, who, or what, could kill such beasts?"

J'zalgo sighed. "They call him the Dragonborn. He can fight them and kill them. He can speak like them. He consumes their souls. It was he who slayed the dragon leader. And they say it was he who shouted down the gates of Solitude and repelled the Empire from Skyrim."

"Repelled the Empire?"

"Yes, J'dara. There has been a war. A terrible war. A Nord, Ulfric Stormcloak, defied Imperial rule. He murdered the true high king and sought to claim the throne for himself. He fought to _liberate_ Skyrim. His actions only succeeded in destroying it. Cities were torn apart. Clans that had been friends since the days of Talos were pitted against each other. The young men and women of Skyrim were slaughtered by their own people, their farms and homes set to flames."

"And this Ulfric, he was victorious?"

"Not before the Dragonborn. The war came to a cold standstill. Stormcloaks fought Imperials, but neither side could gain the advantage. There was a truce, however brief, so that the dragons could be dealt with. But when they were dead or scattered, the hero joined the Stormcloaks.

"Why?"

"No one is sure, brother, but his sword and his shout turned the tide of the war. With the Dragonborn leading his armies, Ulfric slowly strangled the Imperial legions. Camps were destroyed, cities were captured. One by one the loyal holds fell to the Stormcloak onslaught. All that remained was Solitude. But the ancient walls could not withstand the tongue of a beast. It is said that the Dragonborn shouted the very gates of the city down. The Imperials fled before his terrible wrath. Then, in the last vicious strike, he slew General Tullius."

"They killed an Imperial general?"

"Not they. The Dragonborn. Some whisper that he has the cold, darkened heart of the malevolent dragons he slew. Others, that he is the manifestation of the Daedra."

"The Daedra! But the legends say he is the blessed of Akatosh!"

"I do not believe he is a Daedra. I met him once, very briefly. He seemed…troubled…by who, by what, he was. There was a darkness that surrounded him, but it was not wickedness. Pain, perhaps. As if a great weight lay on his shoulders. I do not know if he is the blessed of Akatosh or the son of the Gods, but he is no Daedra."

"So what happened after he slew the general? Who now rules in Skyrim?"

"Ulfric Stormcloak does. With the Imperial army defeated and its remnant fleeing back to Cyrodiil, the Jarls had no choice but to crown Ulfric. And he wasted little time in consolidating his power. He divided the kingdom into three provinces, one to be ruled directly from his throne in Windhelm and the other two administered by his generals, the Dragonborn and another. Of course, he let Jarls who would stay loyal to him rule their holds, but their power is greatly restricted by Stormcloak armies roaming their throughout their cities and lands."

"So the Jarls rule their holds, but the generals rule a province?"

"Each province oversees three holds. In the West, the Dragonborn General Stormblade rules over the province of Westreach. He controls Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, and the Reach. Ulfric's other general, Galmar Stone-fist, oversees the Pale Plains: The Pale, Whiterun and Falkreath. Finally, from his throne in Windhelm, Ulfric directly rules over Wintermarch: Winterhold, Eastmarch and the Rift. So, yes, the Jarls still retain their power, but Ulfric's influence is ever present."

J'darra stared at his brother. He took a drag from their skooma pipe and sat back in his chair. "You said they still fight though," he replied. "If this Stormcloak is now king, what more fighting can there be?"

His brother laughed. "More than one could imagine. As I said, brother, their land is in chaos. Sure, the Imperials are defeated, but they are not gone. Those who did not flee have banded together. They may be small but they still harry Stormcloak caravans. And, of course, there are still some in Skyrim who bear no love for Ulfric or his uprising. There are Nords that would rather bend the knee to an emperor than they would to him. Ulfric is deeply distrustful of his own nobles, hence the appointment of his generals to the provinces."

"The war is far from over then?"

J'zalgo paused. "For the most part, it is over. But how long Ulfric remains upon his throne is yet to be seen. Yet," he paused again, taking a drag from the skooma pipe, "a few disgruntled nobles are the least of his worries. The Aldmeri sees this rebellion as a sign of hostility. There are rumors that the sons of skyrim and the mer will clash once again. The Imperials are also mustering their forces. Skyrim is one of their provinces, and Mede will not take this defiance lightly. And there are always the Reachmen."

"The Reachmen?"

"Distant cousins of the Bretons. They claim that Markarth and the Reach belongs to them. But they are terrorists, not an army. They descend from the mountains to kill and slaughter and then disappear. Yet, now that Skyrim is weak from her own war, they have grown bolder. And there are whispers, in the darkest taverns in the Reach, that they are planning something terrible. Something that will shake the very foundation of Ulfric's new reign."

J'darra gaped at his brother. He absorbed everything that he had learned and then smiled, very slowly. "It seems you've left at the right time then."

"I left because the Nords would have killed me. Ulfric is distrustful, some say hateful, of anyone who isn't a Nord. In Windhelm, he won't even allow the elves to live with anyone else. He says they are Thalmor spies. Of course, now anyone who isn't a Nord has become a spy, either for the Thalmor, the Empire or the traitorous nobles. He grew paranoid. I was arrested for trying to sell wares. Some of my companions were slain." He looked at the table.

"With such chaos, how can this Ulfric continue to rule?"

The elder Khajiit took another long drag from the skooma pipe and answered with a long, depressed sigh. "What hope there is brother, lies with their hero, the Dragonborn. If he truly is the blessed of Akatosh, then perhaps he can restore peace to their kingdom. If not, I fear the destruction his new king shall reign upon our world."

* * *

><p>A soft knock rapped against the door to the cavern chamber. As it opened with a soft groan, candlelight from a lantern filled the room. The man looked up from the myriad of books that covered his desk to see a boy standing with his head in the doorway. "M…mi…mi lord," he squeaked, his voice trembling, "they…they wish for your presence in the hall."<p>

The man stood up from his desk. "Lead the way then Aedd." The boy nodded and bound down a long hallway. He led the man into a wide cavern, filled with men and women. Some of them tended to cooking pots, others to the mending of armor. Some of them stood around a table, a large map spread across its surface. The map bore small flags, indicating the forts, villages and cities of Skyrim. The man approached the table. The men and women in the cavern bowed their heads to him in a sign of deference. He smiled and nodded at them in affirmation. "What is it Nepos?"

"My lord," the man called Nepos answered, "we have found it. The crypt of Hevnoraak. It lies within the ruins of Valthume."

"And, the priest? He is still there?"

"Yes, my lord. Our research indicates that he still slumbers."

The man smiled and walked toward the map. There was a small black flag indicating the ruins of Valthume. He traced his finger along the mountain ridges and swept it against the map. "The Reach will be ours once again. Prepare an excursion. We must distract these insufferable Stormcloaks long enough so that they will not hinder our true plans. Burn their villages, their hovels. Kill their women and their children. I want them worked into a frenzy. I want them so enraged that they cannot see what goes on beneath their noses."

"My lord, it will be done." Nepos turned and began issuing orders to the warriors that surrounded him. The man left the table. "I will be in my chambers should I be needed again. But, find out more about this Hevnoraak and Valthume. I want to move quickly."

Nepos nodded at the man. "Yes sir."

The man smiled to himself. _Ulfric fashions himself King of Skyrim, _he thought, _but, I, the King in Rags will rise again. I will punish him, and these Nords, for what they have done to my people. I will take back what belongs to us. The Reachmen will rise again and they will crown me, Madanach, King in the Mountains_

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><p>This is my first fanfiction. All reviews and reads are greatly appreciated. As you can tell, this takes place after the events of Elder Scrolls: V. After Alduin's defeat, the Dragonborn joined the Stormcloaks, helping Ulfric win the war and gain his crown. In return for his loyalty, Ulfric granted rule over the new province of Westreach to the Dragonborn. As such, the Dragonborn oversees the holds of Solitude, Markarth and Morthal. Galmar oversees Whiterun, Dawnstar and Falkreath, leaving Windhelm, Winterhold and Riften to Ulfric. The Jarls, of course, are far from happy with this situation, but with much of their country still in chaos, they acquiesce to the Dragonborn's rule. I hope you enjoy!<p> 


	2. Chapter 1

__**Chapter 1 **

_It could be beautiful,_ he thought to himself,_ serene they would call it. Almost picturesque._ The moon hung above the mountains, skewered on one of the peaks, as if Azura had placed it there herself. Its soft white light splayed across the icy peaks and slopes, causing the mountains to shimmer and sparkle in the cold night air. A soft snowfall fell around him, some of it landing softly on his shoulders. Below, flames flickered and danced, warming him against the bite of the cold night air. _A scene from a painting or a tapestry. Almost beautiful._ It may have been beautiful, if not for the smell of burnt flesh that pervaded the night air. In the valley below, there was no traveler's campfire to ward off the night's chill. It wasn't a bonfire to keep the wolves and sabre cats at bay. It was a small farming village, set to the torch by savages, marauders, barbarians. Three families had lived here, attempting to eke out a meager living from the Reach's hardened soil. Now their homes were burning to cinders, and the residents themselves…

General Stormblade, Theoren Dragonslayer, heard the soft footfalls crunching against the snow and the whinny of a horse behind him. Without turning from the blaze, he addressed the approaching rider, "Ralof, are there any survivors?"

"No, sir," the rider replied, "they've killed them all. Forsworn bastards. They set them to the torch. Before or after killing them, we're not certain. The animals were either run off or captured."

Theoren slumped at the news. The Forsworn had become increasingly hostile and increasingly brazen. This was their fourth attack in as many days. Each time, it was the same. Descend at night, harass settlers or caravans, kill them, steal their goods and set everything else to fire. Attacks from the Forsworn were a standard, if irregular, occurrence, yet the level of organization in their recent spree was astonishing. The first night, they attacked in the far north of the Reach, drawing the patrols and platoons to the furthest reach of the hold, only to strike against unguarded and under protected lands the next day. And so it continued the following night, and so it was on this day, their fourth attack. It had taken Theoren and his men hours to reach this village.

He turned to Ralof, "Are there any tracks? Any prints that we can follow? Any indication where these Forsworn vermin have gone?"

Ralof shook his head. "No, sir. Most of the tracks have been obscured by the snow. What is left it a tangled mass of animal paths and footprints. Some lead into the mountains, but following them in this light would be suicide."

Theoren shook with anger. "Suicide? Our duty is to protect these people! With our lives if need be. If these vermin are anywhere near here, if there is any chance that we can catch them, even one of them, then it is our duty to do so. Round up the men." He stared up into the cold hills and watched as the moon slowly slid behind the peaks.

Ralof nodded his assent and turned his horse to head back down into the valley. Theoren plodded over to his horse and swung himself onto its back. He ran his hand along the two handed blade that hung from his saddle. Thumörén, Shouter's Glorious Roar, he called it. He pulled it from the scabbard and watched the fading moonlight dance across its surface. It glimmered softly, both from the moonlight as well as the ancient magicka folded into it. Theoren smiled. _Dragons have their talons and teeth, _he thought, _and I have you._

Sliding the blade back into its scabbard, he spurred his horse into the valley and joined his men. Stormcloak soldiers, they still wore their dark blue cloaks and cuirasses from the war for Skyrim's freedom. Most of them were veterans, men who had fought beside Ulfric throughout his struggle against the Empire. Some of them were present as the Dragonborn captured Solitude and completed the defeat of the Empire. There were some with him, however, who joined after Ulfric's coronation. They had never seen battle and their eyes betrayed their fear. Theoren went to them now, trying to calm their fears and instill them with confidence. Having gathered the men, he turned his horse towards the mountains and they began the long slow climb into the icy hills.

* * *

><p>The moon had finally descended behind the mountains, casting a cloud of darkness over the soldiers. Dawn was still hours away. The few mages among them lit the way with fire the burst forth from their hands. Theoren wished there were more mages with them, silently cursing the Nordic superstition that caused fear and distrust of magicka adepts. The horses strained to continue up the steep slopes and he could tell that the men were becoming tired. Howls rang in the distance. Bringing them to a halt, Theoren dismounted and spoke softly, "Ralof, pick four others to accompany us. The rest of you, turn back down the mountain and set up camp. If we're not back by midday…" His voice trailed off. Though he wasn't ready yet to quit the search, there was little hope that they would find something. Four men stepped forward, each volunteering to continue on. Theoren nodded at them. "Alright, you four with us. The rest of you, take our horses, from here, we will continue on foot." The soldiers dismounted. Theoren slung Thumörén's scabbard over his shoulder and tightened the strap. Donning his helm, he led the small party up the slopes. The other soldiers took the reins of their horses and began to slowly wind their way down the mountain.<p>

Minutes turned into grueling hours as the men climbed their way up and through the sharp crags in the mountainside. In the west, the first rays of sunlight began to break across the horizon. The men stopped to catch their breath. Ralof pointed across one of the slopes, "Sir…General, look, a cave." Theoren turned to see the open maw of a chamber built into the rock face. Silently, he slid Thumörén from its scabbard and approached.

Turning to his men, he whispered, "Weapons at the ready men. Proceed quietly." The men unsheathed their swords or axes and those with shields hoisted them in front. Slowly, they slid into the cavern. Darkness quickly surrounded them as they delved deeper into the cavern. The wide opening soon compressed to a very narrow pathway. Slowly, silently, they snaked their way through, trying to keep their steel weapons and armor from clanging against the hard rock.

One of them muttered, "I can't even see my own shield in front of my face." Another muffled his agreement. A few hundred feet further, the walls finally started to fall away.

Theoren whispered. "We must be in some sort of chamber or cavern. Hod, did you bring a torch?" Hod grunted and passed a heavy pole wrapped in oil soaked rags forward. Summoning the little he knew of magicka use, Theoren lit the rags with fire from his fingertip. Quickly, the torch became engulfed in flame and the room burst forth with light. The room around them was much larger than any of them had anticipated. The walls fell away to reveal an enormous chamber with a long, wide hallway carved into the other side. Around them, the ruins of what was once a great throne room hall lay in rubbled heaps. However, the former denizens of this once great hall were long since scattered. In their place lay a small dragon.

As the men stared into the empty room, the dragon began to stir. It was small, by dragon standards, with a with a wing span slightly greater than the height of two or three men. It stood up, and, noticing its visitors for the first time, roared. Ralof and the men began to slowly back away, pushing themselves into the small crevice they had emerged from. Theoren, on the other hand, stepped forward defiantly. The dragon, angered by the arrogance of the smaller human breathed in deeply. "Yol Toor Shul!"

Fire exploded from the dragon's mouth, a long searing stream. In response, Theoren drew air deep into his lungs and screamed, "Fo Krah Diin!" The thu'um tinged his mouth with frozen air as the air of the two shouts collided.

The dragon, shocked by the thu'um of a human, stepped back. "Dovah? No, mun joor nuz thu'um do dov. You are man yet shout like dragon. Dovahkiin?"

Theoren stepped forward, "Yes, Dovahkiin los het, Kriid do Alduin. The Dovahkiin is here, slayer of Alduin."

"Alduin," the small dragon replied. "I felt his sil, soul, torn from this world along with many of my zeymahs. Have you slain them all?"

"All who would threaten my people." He looked into the dragon's eyes, Thumörén waving softly in his hand. "And what of you? Do you wish to test your thu'um against the kriin do Alduin?"

The dragon, enraged by the challenge of a mere mortal did not respond. Instead, it quickly rushed forward, its mouth opening to catch the Dragonborn in its jaws. Theoren stepped back, thrusting his sword forward into the soft gum of the dragon's maw. The dragon reared back and screeched, then shouted, "Fus Ro Dah!" Theoren, unprepared for the sudden onslaught slammed against a broken pillar. The dragon quickly moved forward. "You wear the bones of my zeymah for your armor, yet it cannot be as strong as those of a true dovah." The dragon snapped again, its powerful jaws snapping closed inches from Theoren's arm. He scrambled to his feet and swung his sharp blade for the dragon's neck. The steel bit into the scales, tearing open the dragon's flesh and spilling his blood against the stone floors.

Undaunted, the dragon snapped its head around and pulled in another deep breath. However, before he could speak, Theoren shouted, "Krii Lun Aus!" The thu'um pierced the dragon like a sharp lance, wounding it and sending it sprawling back. Drawing another breath, Theoren charged forward, "Iiss Slen Nus!" Ice burst forth from his lungs, stealing his breath. The burst of frost, however, shocked his opponent and gave him the opportunity to attack. Swinging Thumörén above his head, Theoren slashed again at the dragon's neck and then drove the sword's point deep into his opponent's gullet. The dragon let out one final scream as life faded from its body. His arms shaking from the thrashing of the dragon, Theoren pulled his sword out and raised it again. However, the dragon fell to the stone floor as its soul and life rushed into Theoren's consciousness. He felt the overwhelming sensation as the dragon's knowledge and memories became his own. Then, as soon as it began, it ended, leaving him alone.

He turned toward the crevice he had walked through earlier, only to find his men staring in disbelief. Ralof stepped forward, "I…I had heard the stories, but, never did I expect anything like that."

Theoren frowned and wiped the dragon's blood off from his sword. "Never mind that now. We have yet to find what we came here for and it already grows late. We should return to the camp." Silently, the men nodded in agreement and set out the way they came in.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing!<strong> Just a note, Theoren's sword, Thumörén, is not a perfectly pronounced phrase in the Dragon Tongue. Instead, its a slurred pronunciation and variation of the words Thu'um- shout, Moro – glory, and Rein- roar. There's a whole other story about how this blade came to be, but that's, possibly, for another time. For now, suffice to say that it's a very special sword to Theoren and was the one he carried into battle and slew Alduin with.


End file.
